


and maybe (just maybe) i'll come home

by vangoghstars



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dimension Travel, Established Relationship, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unrequited Love, i know so many of these tags conflict but just hear me out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangoghstars/pseuds/vangoghstars
Summary: “Is it weird that I feel like I’ve known you guys forever?”“I don’t think so,” Dream says. He thinks about the way he recognized George immediately at the cafe, how he thought the American accent seemed out of place. “I don’t think so at all.”//For every Dream, there is a George. Sometimes they're both Minecraft streamers. Other times they're college students, or a celebrity couple, or leaders of warring nations. He just needs to figure out which George is the right one before time runs out.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	and maybe (just maybe) i'll come home

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome! a couple things before we get started. 
> 
> first, please do not share this with any ccs involved. if any ccs happen to find it and are uncomfortable, message me and this will be taken down. 
> 
> second, this fic is based off the song promise by ben howard, which is absolutely gorgeous and worth the listen. the premise itself was inspired by the fic "(when you gonna realise) it was just that the time was wrong" by The_Blonde here on ao3. 
> 
> third, i do not actually ship dnf. i wanted to make it very clear that i don't really want dream and george to date irl. i simply enjoy their dynamic as an outlet for writing.

  1. **could be a burden**



George stares at him expectantly, brown eyes dulled and pink nose tucked into a blue scarf. He looks down into Dream’s hands, and Dream follows his gaze to a warm cup of coffee, steam rising from the liquid. There’s a lid in his other hand.

“Can I-” George says, and Dream blanches.

“Look,” George continues, and Dream feels light-headed. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m gonna be late for class.”

“You’re American,” Dream says back, but he doesn’t know why that’s so shocking.

George blinks. Once, twice. “...Yes?” 

“I- I’m so sorry,” Dream says, backtracking. “I’m just tired. God, I- I’m sorry. Here’s your coffee, sorry about that.”

“You’re good,” George replies, grabbing the coffee with two mitten-covered hands. “Finals season, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dream says, heaves out a sigh. “I’ve got like six essays to write.” He forces a soft laugh.

George smiles back. “Well, good luck with that. And thanks for the coffee. Have a good one...” he takes a minute to gaze down at Dream’s nametag. “...Clay!”

“You too,” Dream says, and watches him go. He fiddles with the nametag George was staring at for a second, watching the back of George’s head turn the corner. 

His coworker coughs at the register. Dream turns to face Karl, who recoils at how white Dream’s face is.

“Oh god, you good?” 

“What- oh. I, uh. Sure, Yeah. I-”

“Please don’t tell me you were up late again last night.”

Dream grins, sheepish and small. 

“Clay,” Karl huffs, handing a coffee cup labelled with the next customer’s order off to him. “You need to sleep more. Can’t stay up every night gaming or whatever you do.”

“Please,” Dream counters. “Like you and Alex aren’t playing Jackbox with your little gang all the time.”

Karl just laughs heartily. “That’s so different. We’re cool.”

Dream just rolls his eyes, 

“Speaking of,” Karl continues. “Game tonight. You want in? Alex is bringing a friend, I think. Someone from his calc class, he said. Probably some nerd.” 

There’s no bite behind his voice, just affection. Karl and Alex have been best friends since they met a year ago during the first week of school, when Karl had helped him move a chair in Alex’s room, and Alex called him “mom” on the way out. One apology brownie later, and the two were as inseparable as they were completely insufferable.

Dream checks to make sure nobody is waiting in line. It’s been slow today, slower than normal, with the usual morning rush before classes begin shaping up to be more like a crawl. “Only if I’m allowed to make copious dick jokes,” he says, which gets another laugh out of Karl. 

“Sure,” he says, resting an elbow against the cash register. “And bring Nick as well. God knows he needs the socialization.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dream says, filling up the coffee cup with a shot of espresso. The liquid heats up the outside of the cup, and Dream has to move his hand to avoid the rising temperature. 

“All you two do is play video games in your room all the time,” Karl says. “You guys were made to be roommates.” 

Sometimes, Dream feels that way too. It was the strangest accident, a newly transferred sophomore paired with a junior for housing after Dream got dropped by his old quartet of roommates who realized that university-sponsored apartments suddenly became more accessible if they were a trio. 

Nick was just as loud as Dream was if not more, with all the same boisterous laughs at the stupidest jokes. He preferred to stay in and mess around with his friends rather than go out and drink, which made him instantly a million times more likeable.

So when he told Dream he played Minecraft and offered to start a server with him? Well, that pretty much cemented him as one of Dream’s best friends. 

“Thanks, I think,” Dream says, finishing off the latte he’s making with steamed milk. He sets it on the counter for the kid waiting, who grabs it nervously and books it out of the cafe. 

“Underclassmen,” Karl says, watching them go. “An enigma.”

“Your bestie is literally a sophomore.” Dream rolls his eyes and smiles, shoving Karl lightly in the shoulder. 

“Alex is different. He’s fun.”

“You just like that you found someone who’s just as loud as you are.” 

“Big words coming from you,” Karl shoots back, smiling. “The whole hall heard you and Nick screaming over Minecraft the other night.”

“Stop,” Dream says playfully before glancing down at his watch. “Shit,” he hisses. “Gotta head to class. See you at jackbox,” he hollers over his shoulder, slipping into the backroom to shed off his apron and shove his green hoodie over his head. 

He slips into the back of the classroom, out of the gaze of his professor. He rationalizes it by reminding himself that he hates this class anyway. It’s a big history class, probably 200 kids or so, definitely the biggest of his current courses, but for some goddamn reason the English department requires Intro to Western Civilization for his major, so he slogs through it. 

The lecture is as long as it is boring. He doesn’t really remember much of it (something about the rise of the Byzantine Empire? He’ll watch the video of this lecture back later). The teacher, a young, tall man with shaggy brown hair straight out of grad school, gestures wildly to the slides pulled up on the screen behind him. 

He’s always been kind to Dream, whose best subject has never been history, which makes him one of Dream’s favorite teachers. Plus, the professor’s voice is soothing, the british lilt making it sound like he’s singing every word.

Dream’s been so tired recently. 

He can feel the time slipping away from him, his eyes shutting slowly, but there’s nothing he wants to do to stop it. The air in the classroom is warm compared to the fresh snow on the ground outside, and Professor Gold has gone off on a tangent about the inner workings of the byzantine government. 

It’s funny.

He doesn’t really remember going to sleep the night before.

  1. **who am i, darling to you?**



“-ream?”

A discord notification pings.

He blinks, trying to shake the heaviness from his eyes.

It’s from George, unsurprisingly. It’s always George.

_ You good? We can stop if rp is too much right now _

His hand is hovering over his mouse, the other one laid across his keyboard. 

“Dream?” Quackity calls again, sincerity replacing the fake rage that was there a moment before. 

“You don’t get to tell me my rules are unfair,” Dream says. If he’s avoiding the issue, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

_ i’m fine, _ he types back to George.  _ :) _

“Goddamnit Dream,” Quackity says, the anger back in his voice. Dream takes a moment to appreciate just how good of an actor his friend is. “You never make anything easy, do you? You’re a fucking tyrant.”

“And you’re a terrorist. Eret, you’re king of the SMP now,” Dream spits back.

“Just say you hate me,” George says as Dream clicks the disconnect button. His computer goes suddenly silent as his discord avatar’s activity level changes to “offline”. 

He sighs, logs out of the SMP, pushes back on his chair. 

His body feels achy and heavy, the way it did after he would push himself to the limit in PE in high school. He likes the way it feels when his body is on fire, when he’s chasing some sort of invisible high. 

He exchanges his worn grey sweatpants for a pair of shorts and goes for a run.

It’s just turning over to winter, and the winds nip at Dream’s thin shirt. The sky has darkened to a cold grey; a storm’s brewing on the horizon. There’s a distant sound of thunder rolling off the nearby ocean. 

His legs are sore by the time he gets to the lake, his calves aching. When he was first moved into his house, he had tracked the distance to Clear Lake. It had been important to him then. Now, he doesn’t remember it. It seems like lifetimes ago. 

The water is cold like it always is. The Atlantic has never been particularly kind, and though the day is pleasant by any non-Floridian’s standards, the ocean remains fickle. 

He puts his feet in the water anyway. Maybe he’ll always be searching for the warmth that isn’t there. 

When he was young, maybe five or so, his mom had brought him to the beach for the first time. He and his siblings had all piled into the minivan, the boogie board balanced across three of their laps in the back seat. He had worn his favorite shorts, the bright green ones with the black stripes up the sides, his favorite color even now. 

The waves had been big that day, the tide coming in steadily. His mom had laid out the blanket along the shore while he and his sisters ran into the ocean, the salty water splashing up around their knees. It had been cold, colder than anything Dream had ever experienced in his young life. He had screamed so violently his sister had to pick him up out of the water and hold him against her waist so the waves only lapped gently at his toes. 

She was holding him like that when the wave hit. 

She had been young too, only a few years older than Dream. She was relatively short too, having lost the genetic lottery that Dream won. She had turned her back on the ocean for just a moment to readjust Dream on her hip when the water splashed up against her ears, dragging her down into the chill. 

Dream had gone down with her, tumbling into the deep blue. 

It only lasted for a minute, maybe less. Still, his small lungs screamed desperately. He clawed at his throat, pushing upwards and away from his sister, who had dropped him immediately. The ends of his vision swam like the current, pulling him further away from the surface. 

It felt like a goodbye. 

Dream could feel his heart racing, his stomach turning over himself, his arms screaming in pain. But something fundamental in his brain had shut down. 

_ It’s okay _ , it seemed to say as his vision blackened just a little. 

_ It’s okay to let go _ . 

It was only when he was dragged up by his sister, choking desperately on air, that he cried. He sobbed uncontrollably for an hour wrapped up in a towel in his mom’s arms. 

He didn’t go back to the ocean for many years after that. 

He promised himself that day that he would never lose control again.

The storm moving in on the horizon makes the air heavy with water vapor. His feet are starting to numb from the chill of the ocean. He wraps his arms around himself tentatively. 

He sinks in the sand with every passing wave. If he doesn’t move he’ll sink right into the water. He watches it in his imagination, the sand pulling him up to his waist, his head dipping below the water. His body dissolves into a thousand tiny droplets, scattered all throughout time and space, a final mystery. 

He hopes that he’s at least been something worth remembering.

A stray gust of wind throws his hair across his forehead. 

His phone pings again from somewhere deep in his pocket. 

_ Quackity: awesome stream today :)  _

He’s a light in the darkness and the depth of the ocean. 

_ Dream: u were great!  _

It’s not a lie so much as it’s a diversion. Quackity’s tactics are more of “make them laugh” then “directly confront them about the fact you’re worried”, but they’ve been friends for long enough for Dream to know what Quackity’s message implies. 

_ Quackity: :D _

The green dot next to Quackity’s discord icon fades to grey as he goes inactive. Dream just hopes he’s quelled Quackity’s worry at least for now. 

He sighs, pulls his feet from the wet sand in the cold waters of Clear Lake. The clouds have turned a dark grey and hang low in the sky. 

It’s time to go home.

  1. **i come alone here**



The sun is just rising when he reaches the Holy Lands. George is already there, lapiz crown glinting in the early rays. Distantly, Dream wonders what the sunrise must look like to George. 

“George,” he starts, slipping almost naturally into that calculated voice, the one so devoid of any real emotions so he can detach himself from the situation. It scares him, he thinks, how fast he can throw any emotions out the window, slip into this persona like an old coat. “I’m dethroning you and reinstating Eret as king of Dream SMP.”

“WHAT-” Sapnap rages, pushing George back to step in front. “You can’t just-”

“Shut it, Sapnap,” Dream says. He doesn’t have time for this. He has a small and incredibly loud blonde kid to go check on, and the sun’s rising steadily in the sky. It will be midday soon, and then Tommy will go all furiously silent and stubborn the way he does in the afternoons after Dream burns his belongings. “I can do whatever I want.”

“No you can’t,” Quackity interjects from the Prime Church. He’s leaning against the front of it, arms crossed defensively on his chest. “You can’t just go around fucking up people’s lives when it’s convenient to you.” 

Quackity’s love of law, his endless nights spent in Manberg’s library between wars, seems to have paid off. Dream remembers finding him asleep on a stack of books on constitutional law, his VP suit wrinkled so much he had to spend two days hand-pressing it. He had been happy, though, and that was a strange sight to see under Schlatt’s rule. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Dream answers, letting the slightest bit of rage into his voice. He’s careful about restraining it, though, never giving away too much, never showing his ultimate plan. The eyes of his mask stare into Quackity, unblinking. Behind those cold empty holes in the porcelain, Dream sucks in a silent breath. “I run the show.”

“We’re your  _ friends _ ,” Sapnap says, pleading. He’s always been like that, wearing his emotions proudly for anyone to see. Perhaps it’s why he and Dream were such good friends- they were polar opposites in that respect. “George is your friend.”

“No he’s not,” Dream says. “You’re not.”

_ Please _ , he thinks silently.  _ I don’t mean that. Please stop me _ .

Sapnap doesn’t. 

His face crumbles instantly, eyes dropping to the floor. He looks over to George, who’s staring at Dream with the most heart-wrenching look Dream thinks he’s ever seen. It’s betrayal, written clear across his face. 

“No,” Quackity says, crowding into Dream. Dream may have a good 7 inches on the kid, but an angry Quackity is loud and relatively scary. “No, no, no. You don’t get to decide what’s fucking right for us, what’s fucking right for the server. We decide that, you piece of shit!”

Dream almost flinches back at the anger in Quackity’s voice. Quackity’s rage is a wildfire: hot and fast, burns through people and places without care for who gets in the way. This time, Dream manages to hold his ground. 

“George, take off your crown,” Dream says, voice cold. Above all, he is tired. Tired of war, of fighting, of worrying about what his friends think, of keeping them safe. He doesn’t know when he last slept. He’s not sure it’s an answer he wants. 

“George, do not take off your crown,” Quackity intercepts. “Dream doesn’t control us.”

“He kind of does,” Eret buts in, dark sunglasses obscuring any emotions his eyes would give away. They make an intimidating pair, Dream notes, two people who block their face from the world. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Quackity hisses at Eret. “You no good piece of shit fucking  _ sellout _ -”

“Quackity,” Sapnap interrupts, grabbing Quackity’s arm and pulling him away from Eret, who looks more bored than anything. “Stop. Our fight isn’t with him.”

“You’re citizens of my SMP,” Dream says tilting his head. “If you want it to remain that way, you’ll listen. If I say Eret is in charge, then Eret is in charge.”

He’s tired. He wishes someone would stop him. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this in the first place. 

_ Why does it matter so much who’s in charge? Why do any of us care? _

Quackity steadies himself, takes a breath, rounds on Dream again. His eyes are dark and piercing, and his golden wings ruffle angrily behind him.

“You fucking psychopath. You think you can just come in here and control everyone? And we’ll all just bow down. Well, we fucking won’t. We won’t. You can’t just show up and make all these unfair rules-”

“You don’t get to tell me my rules are unfair,” Dream snaps at Quackity, taking a step forward. It pushes Quackity back one step, and suddenly Dream has the upper hand, just how he wants it. He’s good at that, getting what he wants out of a situation. 

“Goddamnit Dream,” Quackity sighs, full of pent up rage, the sparks of it visible in his eyes and his feathers that stick up. “You never make anything easy, do you? You’re a fucking tyrant.”

“And you’re a terrorist,” Dream hisses. “Eret, you’re king of the SMP now,” he finishes, turning on his heel and marching out of the Holy Land.

“Just say you hate me,” George pleads to his retreating back. 

Dream does not turn around. 

After all, he has Tommy’s base to check on. The name escapes him. Something to do with logs? He’s never bothered learning. It will be gone soon, as all things do in this world. They serve their purpose, and then they die. If George and Sapnap haven’t caught onto that yet, well, that’s their problem. 

“Tommy,” he says, knocking on the door of the log pillars. 

The kid looks a little worse for wear as he dumps his armor into a pit. Dream watches the smoke from the burnt iron curl up into the air towards L’Manberg. 

He decides that he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t have time for such things.

  1. **you’ll wait for me only**



“I think this is the wrong one,” Dream says, and the sincerity of it surprises him. Other things surprise him too, like the way that George’s hair curls around his forehead and the suit George is currently wearing. 

“How can it be?” George asks. “You said this suit looked nice.” 

“I-” Dream says. He’s not sure what they’re talking about. “Yeah,” he says eventually, voice soft. “It does.”

And it does. It’s a deep navy blue, the color of the sky right before the first stars appear at night, and he’s paired it with a white shirt and a crimson tie. It looks soft and expensive, made out of something nice that makes George’s eyes sparkle. He doesn’t know much about suits, but he thinks that counts for something. 

“Thanks,” George said, and his voice is just as quiet, sharing a feeling that won’t live past this moment. “You ready?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t know what for. “I’ll follow you anywhere,” he says and means it.

George laughs, high but soft. His breath puffs out onto Dream’s cheek. Dream didn’t realize they were this close. 

“You’re such a sap,” George says. His eyes are shining darkly; Dream wonders how the night sky could ever compare. 

“I think I’m just lucky,” he says, placing a soft kiss on George’s cheek. “We’re going to be late.”

“Please,” George says, rolling his eyes with a smile. “As if you’d ever let us be.” 

They aren’t late by some miracle. The designers usher him immediately into wardrobe, pushing the fabric of his suit this way and that until it lies just right.

_ Perfect _ , they tell him, buffing foundation into his skin, putting concealer under his eyes.  _ You have to be perfect _ . 

George stands off to the side, perfect. He’s more fitted for this life than Dream will ever be, Dream thinks, and it’s a wonder Dream’s the famous one. 

“George,” he says, voice soft and catching on something heavy in his throat. “You look beautiful.”

A flush spreads around the collar of George’s shirt, meets in the middle at his necktie. “Thank you, Clay.” 

They can’t talk the way Dream wants to. Everything feels stilted, scripted, out of his control. Dream misses the way it is when they’re alone, how silence can say more than Dream ever could.

“It’s time to go,” his manager tells him, pushing him gently from the chair and directing him towards the entrance to the red carpet.

George’s feet click lightly along the cement floor. It is not real enough. 

His manager leaves them at the door. “You’ve got this, Dream,” she says before vanishing down the hallway. He is thankful for Cara, for the way she is grounding just as much as she’s fiercely determined. He thinks he would be adrift without her. 

“You do,” George says, fixing the lapels of Dream’s deep green suit. “Have this, I mean. You always do well at these events.”

Dream rests his head on George’s shoulder, his nose buried in the soft fabric of the jacket. George smells of vanilla and pine and soap. “Thanks,” he breathes out into the still air. 

He wants to live in this moment forever, bottle it up and save it for days when George has gone away.

When they open the door to the noise and the lights, they do it together. 

“Welcome back to E! Celebrity News! Today, I’m here with rising star Clay Weston, more commonly known by his moniker ‘Dream’. Dream, how are you doing tonight? Excited for the premier?”

Dream walks slowly down the carpet, holding George’s right hand the entire time. He poses for pictures, answers all the questions the way he’s been taught. 

“Who are you wearing?”

_ Armani _

“Any new projects?”

_ Lots in the works, can’t reveal anything _ .

“When will you and George get married?”

_ We don’t know yet. We’re just enjoying engagement _ .

“Do you miss England, George?”

_ No, he answers laughing. How could I? _

It’s a routine he’s used to, whether he likes it or not. The red carpet is warm from the lights shining on it, and it’s all a little overwhelming. He wants more than anything to be home right now cuddled under a blanket with George watching some awful movie. 

If he imagines hard enough, the warmth could be a weighted blanket, the noise of cameras flashing a shitty Hallmark movie George is making them watch. It’s almost believable, when he runs his thumb along George’s, that they’re not here at all.

“You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“George and I are just- huh?” It snaps him out of whatever rehearsed speech he’s launched himself into. Everything seems suddenly silent, zeroed in on the man in front of him. 

He’s young, younger than Dream, probably in his early 20s. He looks completely out of place, dressed in a black sweater with orange strings and a blue beanie embroidered with the letters “LAFD”. His dark hair swoops out from underneath across his forehead. He doesn’t even have a microphone; one hand is tucked into his pocket and the other fiddles with an emblem of a yellow duck encased in a ring of stars. His lips are pulled in tight together, and he looks a strange mix of nervous and determined.

Somehow, Dream knows it was him who spoke.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he repeats. 

The lights feel too bright. 

There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. It feels pulled from somewhere even Dream doesn’t know, like he’s seen this kid before in another life. 

He looks to George, whose eyes glaze right over the kid as if he wasn’t there at all. His skin feels electric; the creases where George’s hand meets his is burning.

Dream looks back to the kid, and something he doesn’t understand flashes across his vision. 

_ A purple and white icon, a yellow rubber duck. A mexican flag on a green and white video game character, QuackityHQ.  _

“Alex?” he asks. But the boy is gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> and that's the end of that, for now. i'll be working on updating this fic weekly (hopefully). follow me on twitter if u want updates @izzyhangout or if u wanna brainrot w me abt the dream smp! im currently on a ranboo fixation :D


End file.
